


Everything I loved (became everything I lost)

by shameandshambles



Category: Political RPF - Austria 21st c.
Genre: M/M, dressing up, not relationship-heavy, vote of no confidence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 06:23:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19042936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shameandshambles/pseuds/shameandshambles
Summary: Heinz-Christian helps him into the suit jacket, buttons it even when Sebastian's fingers shake too much. He opens his mouth, his heart racing as if counting down the precious last minutes of his career. He doesn't want it to end.





	Everything I loved (became everything I lost)

He looks horrible.

There is no better way of putting it, no nicer way, no euphemisms for his paleness and the black smudges under his blood-shot eyes. He has not slept well. A few fitful hours between midnight and five, and then a shaky handful of minutes he had dozed away, unwilling to face the morning. What use was getting up at five anyway?  
What use was getting up?  
He shakes his head, eyes focussing on his hair. He should have cut it the day he announced the snap election. Now it's just that one centimetre too long to look perfectly sleek. And a fresh haircut this morning would just seem desperate. He'll have to make do.

For a moment he doesn't know where to start. He's showered, his hair wet and clinging to his neck. He combs it back with his fingers and then decides to start with his hair. It's as good a beginning as any other. At least he will be moving.

Sebastian combs his hair with practised motions, blows it half-dry, cements it in place with gel, then dries it fully. He has been doing this since the late nineties, and gotten better every year. He is not a vain man, aware of his flaws as he is, but he knows that of all the men in parliament, he is the only one that could be described as _pretty_. He takes pride in looking put together no matter the circumstances. Sighing, he looks down at the vanity, hand settling on the foundation. He can't afford to look even the slightest bit tired – the media, his colleagues, the other parties will all be eager to use any weakness against him. So he puts on make-up in controlled strokes. Primer, to reduce the deep lines restlessness has left on his face. Then a shade of foundation he knows will give him a healthier look. He applies it in downwards strokes on his cleanly-shaven face. Even years after he started doing this the change remains a miracle as he goes from plain exhausted to a fresh and healthy look. Dabbing concealer under his eyes Sebastian muses that he could pass for well-rested. He sets the make-up with some loose translucent powder and gazes at himself in the mirror. Running a smooth finger over his eyebrows to comb them in place, he deems himself acceptable. His hand shakes, so he drops it in his lap and looks over the vanity in an attempt to distract himself.

His eye catches on a sheet of paper, and the tremor gains some intensity.

He has written two speeches, prepared as he likes to be. One in case he'll survive the vote: Optimistic, humble in his thankfulness, promising to do better, victorious. A good speech, with a few red marks from Susanne – a too-long sentence that had needed splitting, a few more precise words. He knows she doesn't do these things out of the goodness of her heart. They are just two people who are mutually beneficial for each other, and just ruthless enough to gain the other's respect. Some might go so far to call them friends, with how they have been pretending to be a couple for fifteen years by now, with how they can smile for the cameras and then bitch about all the other politicians and officials in the room, not once seeming anything but winning. There is no place for people like _them_ in their positions. If he is lucky she stays with him for her own gain, and because they have perfected their charade to a point where even he himself doubts that he isn't really in love with her.  
The second speech he had not dared to start for the longest time, scared what it might mean. But at five-thiry this morning, pushing it back any further had seemed fruitless. The possibility that he might be voted out of office – given a vote of no-confidence – had been real then. It's even more real now that he looks at the printed pages on the vanity, neatly folded to fit into the inside pocket of a suit.

He tears his eyes from the paper and walks into his wardrobe to choose a dress shirt. The choice in colour is easy; white is customary. Crisp and clean. It's a matter of cut, of collar and cuffs. Sebastian's fingers run over the rows and rows of shirts and suits.  
In the end he goes for button cuffs, simple but elegant, and a spread collar that ought to frame his face nicely. The cotton of the shirt is soft under his fingertips. He holds it up next to a row of suits. He had set out a selection of ten in the evening, all varying shades of grey, black, dark blue. He discards black after a long look. He is not going to a funeral (he swallows) or at least doesn't want to seem like he is. His hand smooths over the fine new wool. Anthracite, he thinks, feels wrong. Informal, to a certain degree. So one of the three blue suits it is. Cut again. It seems it all comes down to cuts today. He tries not to think about the implications of that as he chooses one that covers the collar of his shirt in just the right way, a 2500 euro suit he bought for a happier occasion.

Leaves the tie. Not red, that would seem like trying to impress the SPÖ, which he wouldn't even do at gunpoint. Black looks too much like mourning. Other colours are too bright and cheerful, too improper. He needs a calm, muted colour. It's all just a mask, a shell built to look less cracked and to hide the brittleness. His mouth is dry as the perfect colour flashes before his eyes and he chooses the tie, half as a sign, half as a fitting puzzle piece to his camouflage.

He carries the clothes over to the full length mirror on the wardrobe for his more relaxed clothes: old T-shirts, sweatpants. Clothes that belong to an arbitrary _before_. Before he was chancellor, before he was political, before... Well. Before. He pulls black boxer briefs and a white T-shirt from the wardrobe. He is not going to sweat through his dress shirt if he can prevent it. He needs to hold on to every shred of dignity they will allow him to keep.  
All his gestures and movements are well-practised. Sebastian's fingers dance down the rows of buttons on the shirt, and then have to do it a second time because he missed one in his underlying nervousness. He steps into the suit trousers, pulls them up easily and adjusts the shirt so it lies flat against his torso, not creasing. Then he buttons the cuffs, the left first and then the right, until only his hands, his neck and face remain uncovered.

He feels sick to his stomach, unwell in a way he only remembers from his Matura. The fluttering of his nerves, the sharp twangs. He is a good orator, he tells himself. He's been promising people the moon for over a decade now. He tries to tell himself that being voted out of office is not a given yet. His fingers reach for the folded paper that stands out against the dark wood of the vanity.

Sebastian pushes the speeches into the inside pocket of his suit, not quite ready to put the jacket on yet. The ritual must be observed, even if it's just nominally. So he pushes the shirt collar up and pulls the tie around his neck. His fingers are swift, knowing the movements. He allows his mind to wander for a moment, and when it returns he is looking into striking blue eyes.

Heinz-Christian is wearing his pyjamas, his phone set down on the vanity. It's showing two missed calls from Norbert Hofer.  
Sebastian's mouth twitches into a bitter smile. “They are not going to vote for me.” Heinz-Christian looks him over, undoing the tie again and winding it into a tighter knot. “No.” He is slow, methodical, and he doesn't look into Sebastian's eyes. “And even if I was in any position to make them, I wouldn't.” He says it flatly, yet the words carry the hurt, anger, bitterness and betrayal that had carried into their sex the night before. Everything between them is tainted.  
Heinz-Christian takes a step back, gaze on the dark-blue tie. “I'm glad I still get to see you. The colour suits you.”  
The sudden understanding that Heinz-Christian will not be in parliament with him fills Sebastian's mouth with the taste of blood. _So this is how things are from now on._ From the shadows they came, back into the shadows they will go. Something between them so broken that it can never be rebuilt, no matter how long they pretend.

Heinz-Christian helps him into the suit jacket, buttons it even when Sebastian's fingers shake too much. He opens his mouth, his heart racing as if counting down the precious last minutes of his career. He doesn't want it to end. He doesn't...  
But he has to. It's the hard, pragmatic truth. It's the practical, emotionless part of him that calculated every move before asking Strache to be his vice chancellor, before inviting him into his bed. If he gets this right, that part of him says, there will be another chance, at a better time. He is only thirty-two. If he manages a clean break, it will all work out in his favour.  
And a clean break involves a bit of pain.

He looks up at Strache. “When I'm back, I expect everything of yours to be gone.” Coming back to an empty house with just the crisp minimalist furniture. Quiet. Pure. Untouched. He will throw out all the bedding and bleach the bathroom and start all over.  
“Of course.” Strache's piercing eyes meet his and the older man takes his hand, bowing slightly. Pressing a sweet, gentle kiss to the back of Sebastian's hand. When he straightens his back again, he looks professional, detached, slightly cracked. “Good luck.” Sebastian nods. He turns, walks outside without looking back. He closes the door. He closes his eyes. He closes his heart.

His head held high, Sebastian Kurz walks into his last few hours as chancellor or Austria.

**Author's Note:**

> So I made an ao3-account for that...


End file.
